


burn the cards in the fire she kindles

by alynshir



Category: Kingdoms of Amalur
Genre: Angst, Spoilers, alyn shir - Freeform, in which alyn is probably really gay for the fateless one she used to know, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynshir/pseuds/alynshir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate is as cruel as she is beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn the cards in the fire she kindles

**Author's Note:**

> (prompt from tumblr user felicidusaria, ‘GIVE ME SOME ANGST INVOLVING ALYN SHIR’)

The man is dead.

You have had two fingers pressed underneath his throat for what feels like seven seasons. You have felt nothing. The man is dead, and you now have no reason to be here. Fate commands your story as it did his, and his has ended in a pool of blood and a somewhat pathetic death. You are destined for greater things, you think, or at least larger ones, and you certainly will not achieve them by crouching here and wishing the man’s heart would start anew.

The door opens.

You do not even have to look to know that it has opened. You feel the damp breeze of the summer evening, the cursed breeze that has been sticking your hair to the back of your neck in a way most unappealing to both you and any onlookers. You hear the creaking of the wood on the rusted hinges; poor man - Arden, you know his name to be - must have been getting on in years to allow that abnominable sound to purvey.

You turn to look.

The breath leaves your lungs involuntarily. Fate is as cruel as she is beautiful, you think, and you feel as if you are looking the thing itself right in the eye in this very moment as she stands in the doorway.

It feels as if she has stabbed you in the chest with your own daggers, a fate you would wish upon only your worst enemy, as she looks at you with eyes that once scorned. You remember these eyes, these dark eyes that you could never guess the color of. They were always sneering, snarled, and they burned into your skin like brands. 

Now they aren’t.

Now they aren’t, and they meet yours easily, widening in unobstructed fear and suspicion and curiosity all in one. She has never been so easy to read before, and now she is as simple as a children’s book.

Her eyes are the color of lagoons at midnight.

Her teeth aren’t bared in a false grin or a true growl, for once, for once. Her lips are actually smiling, something you have only seen in mocking and never in happiness, and for a moment you are lost in her smile because it is so dizzyingly true. It is sliding off of her lips as she sees you, as she takes in the daggers at your hip, as she sees the dried blood on your fingers and the wine of the Fateweaver’s heart shining in the moonlight. But even as the smile leaves you will not soon forget it. It is burned into your chest and the fire doesn’t hurt for once.

You must be seeing things.

Those eyes are dead. Those lips are dead. 

She is dead.

She is dead, but she is so very alive.

You can see her heart beating in her throat as she reaches back for the blades on her back - interesting, you think, for you have never seen her deign to touch such crude weapons yet she grasps the hilt of the iron dagger as if it fits in her hand perfectly. You can hear breath, living air, whisper between her lips, lips that you expect to twist into mockery and scorn any moment, because it wouldn’t be the first time.

They don’t.

This is impossible. She is dead.

No, she isn’t.

“Interesting. You’re not at all what I expected to find here," you say, and you are more sincere than you ever thought you would need to be.

You expected to find a man, perhaps alive, perhaps not. Death was in the dealt hand of cards today, it must have been; you were wholly unsurprised when you found yourself the only living soul in the house.

Perhaps that is why the Fateweaver died. 

Perhaps, you think, as you straighten and match the gaze of the one standing in the doorway, perhaps it is time to burn the deck and create a new destiny.

Perhaps.

**Author's Note:**

> alyn shir is queer as hell fight me
> 
> my username on tumblr is 'alynshirslover' if you wanna drop me an ask about anything


End file.
